by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrov 16 страница

Life-and-the-Law, social events, accidents, and the young lady -you know,

the one who does the films-will all go zooming along behind you in their own

cars as well. Well? Well? You'll be courting!"

In the depths of his heart no bond-holder believes in the possibility

of a win. At the same time he is jealous of his neighbours' and friends'

bonds. He is dead scared that they will win and that he, the eternal loser,

will be left out in the cold. Hence the hope of a win on the part of an

office colleague drew the bond-holders into the new club. The only

disturbing thought was that none of their bonds would win. That seemed

rather unlikely, though, and, furthermore, the Automobile Club had nothing

to lose, since one car from the graveyard was guaranteed by the capital

earned from the bonds.

In five minutes twenty people had been recruited. As soon as it was all

over, the editor arrived, having heard about the club's alluring prospects.

"Well, fellows," he said, "why shouldn't I put my name down on the

list?"

"Why not, old man," replied Avdotyev, "only not on our list. We have a

full complement and no new members are being admitted for the next five

years. You'd do better to enrol yourself as a friend of children. It's cheap

and sure. Twenty kopeks a year and no need to drive anywhere."

The editor looked sheepish, remembered that he was indeed on the old

side, sighed, and went back to finish reading the entertaining editorial.

He was stopped in the corridor by a good-looking man with a Circassian

face.

"Say, Comrade, where's the editorial office of the Lathe!"

It was the smooth operator.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER

Ostap's appearance in the editorial offices was preceded by a number of

events of some importance.

Not finding Ernest Pavlovich at home (the apartment was locked and the

owner probably at work), the smooth operator decided to visit him later on,

and in the meantime he wandered about the town. Tortured by a thirst for

action, he crossed streets, stopped in squares, made eyes at militiamen,

helped ladies into buses, and generally gave the impression by his manner

that the whole of Moscow with its monuments, trams, vegetable vendors,

churches, stations and hoardings had gathered at his home for a party. He

walked among the guests, spoke courteously to them, and found something nice

to say to each one. So many guests at one party somewhat tired the smooth

operator. Furthermore, it was after six o'clock and time to visit engineer

Shukin.

But fate had decided that before seeing Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to

be delayed a couple of hours in order to sign a statement for the militia.

On Sverdlov Square the smooth operator was knocked down by a horse. A

timid white animal descended on him out of the blue and gave him a shove

with its bony chest. Bender fell down, breaking out in a sweat. It was very

hot. The white horse loudly apologized and Ostap briskly jumped up. His

powerful frame was undamaged. This was all the more reason for a scene.

The hospitable and friendly host of Moscow was unrecognisable. He

waddled up to the embarrassed old man driving the cab and punched him in his

padded back. The old man took his punishment patiently. A militiaman came

running up.

"I insist you report the matter," cried Ostap with emotion.

His voice had the metallic ring of a man whose most sacred feelings had

been hurt. And, standing by the wall of the Maly Theatre, on the very spot

where there was later to be a statue to the Russian dramatist Ostrovsky,

Ostap signed a statement and granted a brief interview to Perdidsky, who had

come hurrying over. Persidsky did not shirk his arduous duties. He carefully

noted down the victim's name and sped on his way.

Ostap majestically set off again. Still feeling the effects of the

clash with the white horse, and experiencing a belated regret for not having

been able to give the cab-driver a belt on the neck as well, Ostap reached

Shukin's house and went up to the seventh floor, taking two stairs at a

time. A heavy drop of liquid struck him on the head. He looked up and a thin

trickle of dirty water caught him right in the eye.

Someone needs his nose punching for tricks like that, decided Ostap.

He hurried upward. A naked man covered with white fungus was sitting by

the door of Shukin's apartment with his back to the stairs. He was sitting

on the tiled floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking from side to

side.

The naked man was surrounded by water oozing from under the apartment

door.

"Oh-oh-oh," groaned the naked man. "Oh-oh-oh."

"Is it you splashing water about?" asked Ostap irritably. "What a place

to take a bath. You must be crazy!"

The naked man looked at Ostap and burst into tears.

"Listen, citizen, instead of crying, you ought to go to the bathroom.

Just look at yourself. You look like a picador."

"The key," moaned the engineer.

"What key?" asked Ostap.

"Of the ap-ap-apartment."

"Where the money is?"

The naked man was hiccupping at an incredible rate.

Nothing could daunt Ostap. He began to see the light. And, finally,

when he realized what had happened, he almost fell over the banister with

laughter.

"So you can't get into the apartment. But it's so simple."

Trying not to dirty himself against the naked engineer, Ostap went up

to the door, slid a long yellow fingernail into the Yale lock, and carefully

began moving it up and down, and left and right.

The door opened noiselessly and the naked man rushed into the flooded

apartment with a howl of delight.

The taps were gushing. In the dining-room the water had formed a

whirlpool. In the bedroom it had made a calm lake, on which a pair of

slippers floated about as serenely as swans. Some cigarette ends had

collected together in a corner like a shoal of sleepy fish.

Vorobyaninov's chair was standing in the dining-room, where the flood

of water was greatest. Small white waves lapped against all four legs. The

chair was rocking slightly and appeared to be about to float away from its

pursuer. Ostap sat down on it and drew up his feet. Ernest Pavlovich, now

himself again, turned off all the taps with a cry of "Pardon me!! Pardon

me!", rinsed himself, and appeared before Bender stripped to the waist in a

pair of wet slacks rolled up to the knee.

"You absolutely saved my life," he exclaimed with feeling. "I apologize

for not shaking your hand, but I'm all wet. You know, I almost went crazy."

"You seemed to be getting on that way."

"I found myself in a horrible situation."

And Ernest Pavlovich gave the smooth operator full details of the

misfortune which had befallen him, first laughing nervously and then

becoming more sober as he relived the awful experience.

"Had you not come, I would have died," he said in conclusion.

"Yes," said Ostap, "something similar once happened to me, too. Even a

bit worse."

The engineer was now so interested in anything concerned with such

situations that he put down the pail in which he was collecting water, and

began listening attentively.

"It was just like what happened to you," began Bender, "only it was

winter, and not in Moscow, but Mirgorod during one of those merry little

periods of occupation, between Makhno and Tyunuynik in '19. I was living

with a family. Terrible Ukrainians! Typical property-owners. A one-storey

house and loads of different junk. You should note that with regard to

sewage and other facilities, they have only cesspools in Mirgorod. Well, one

night I nipped out in my underclothes, right into the snow. I wasn't afraid

of catching cold-it was only going to take a moment. I nipped out and

automatically closed the door behind me. It was about twenty degrees below.

I knocked, but got no answer. You can't stand in one spot or you freeze. I

knocked, ran about, knocked, and ran around, but there was no answer. And

the thing is that not one of those devils was asleep. It was a terrible

night; the dogs were howling and there was a sound of shots somewhere

nearby. And there's me running about the snowdrifts in my summer shorts. I

kept knocking for almost an hour. I was nearly done. And why didn't they

open the door- what do you think? They were busy hiding their property and

sewing up their money in cushions. They thought it was a police raid. I

nearly slaughtered them afterwards."

This was all very close to the engineer's heart.

"Yes," said Ostap, "so you are engineer Shukin."

"Yes, but please don't tell anyone about this. It would be awkward."

"Oh, sure! Entre nous and tete a tete, as the French say. But I came to

see you for a reason, Comrade Shukin."

"I'll be extremely pleased to help you."

"Grand merci!. It's a piddling matter. Your wife asked me to stop by

and collect this chair. She said she needed it to make a pair. And she

intends sending you instead an armchair."

"Certainly," exclaimed Ernest Pavlovich. "Only too happy. But why

should you bother yourself? I can take it for you. I can do it today."

"No, no. It's no bother at all for me. I live nearby."

The engineer fussed about and saw the smooth operator as far as the

door, beyond which he was afraid to go, despite the fact that the key had

been carefully placed in the pocket of his wet slacks.

Former student Ivanopulo was presented with another chair. The

upholstery was admittedly somewhat the worse for wear, but it was

nevertheless a splendid chair and exactly like the first one.

Ostap was not worried by the failure of the chair, the fourth in line.

He was familiar with all the tricks of fate.

It was the chair that had vanished into the goods yard of October

Station which cut like a huge dark mass through the well-knit pattern of his

deductions. His thoughts about that chair were depressing and raised grave

doubts.

The smooth operator was in the position of a roulette player who only

bets on numbers; one of that breed of people who want to win thirty-six

times their stake all at once. The situation was even worse than that. The

concessionaires were playing a kind of roulette in which zero could come up

eleven out of twelve times. And, what was more, the twelfth number was out

of sight, heaven knows where, and possibly contained a marvellous win.

The chain of distressing thoughts was interrupted by the advent of the

director-in-chief. His appearance alone aroused forebodings in Ostap.

"Oho!" said the technical adviser. "I see you're making progress. Only

don't joke with me. Why have you left the chair outside? To have a laugh at

my expense? "

"Comrade Bender," muttered the marshal.

"Why are you trying to unnerve me? Bring it here at once. Don't you see

that the new chair that I am sitting on has made your acquisition many times

more valuable? "

Ostap leaned his head to one side and squinted.

"Don't torment the child," he said at length in his deep voice.

"Where's the chair? Why haven't you brought it?"

Ippolit Matveyevich's muddled report was interrupted by shouts from the

floor, sarcastic applause and cunning questions. Vorobyaninov concluded his

report to the unanimous laughter of his audience.

"What about my instructions?" said Ostap menacingly. "How many times

have I told you it's a sin to steal. Even back in Stargorod you wanted to

rob my wife, Madame Gritsatsuyev; even then I realized you had the character

of a petty criminal. The most this propensity will ever get you is six

months inside. For a master-mind, and father of Russian democracy, your

scale of operations isn't very grand. And here are the results. The chair

has slipped through your fingers. Not only that, you've spoiled an easy job.

Just try making another visit there. That Absalom will tear your head off.

It's lucky for you that you were helped by that ridiculous fluke, or else

you'd have been behind bars, misguidedly waiting for me to bring you things.

I shan't bring you anything, so keep that in mind. What's Hecuba to me?

After all, you're not my mother, sister, or lover."

Ippolit Matveyevich stood looking at the ground in acknowledgment of

his worthlessness.

"The point is this, chum. I see the complete uselessness of our working

together. At any rate, working with as uncultured a partner as you for forty

per cent is absurd. Volens, nevolens, I must state new conditions."

Ippolit Matveyevich began breathing. Up to that moment he had been

trying not to breathe.

"Yes, my ancient friend, you are suffering from organizational

impotence and greensickness. Accordingly, your share is decreased. Honestly,

do you want twenty per cent?"

Ippolit Matveyevich shook his head firmly.

"Why not? Too little for you?"

"T-too little."

"But after all, that's thirty thousand roubles. How much do you want?"

"I'll accept forty."

"Daylight robbery!" cried Ostap, imitating the marshal's intonation

during their historic haggling in the caretaker's room. "Is thirty thousand

too little for you? You want the key of the apartment as well?"

"It's you who wants the key of the apartment," babbled Ippolit

Matveyevich.

"Take twenty before it's too late, or I might change my mind. Take

advantage of my good mood."

Vorobyaninov had long since lost the air of smugness with which he had

begun the search for the jewels.

The ice that had started moving in the caretaker's room, the ice that

had crackled, cracked, and smashed against the granite embankment, had

broken up and melted. It was no longer there. Instead there was a wide

stretch of rushing water which bore Ippolit Matveyevich along with it,

'buffeting him from side to side, first knocking him against a beam, then

tossing him against the chairs, then carrying him away from them. He felt

inexpressible fear. Everything frightened him. Along the river floated

refuse, patches of oil, broken hen-coops, dead fish, and a ghastly-looking

cap. Perhaps it belonged to Father Theodore, a duck-bill cap blown off by

the wind in Rostov. Who knows? The end of the path was not in sight. The

former marshal of the nobility was not being washed ashore, nor had he the

strength or wish to swim against the stream.

He was being carried out into the open sea of adventure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

TWO VISITS

Like an unswaddled babe that clenches and unclenches its waxen fists

without stopping, moves its legs, waggles its cap-covered head, the size of

a large Antonov apple, and blows bubbles, Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov

was eternally in a state of unrest. He moved his plump legs, waggled his

shaven chin, produced sighing noises, and made gestures with his hairy arms

as though doing gymnastics on the end of strings.

He led a very busy life, appeared everywhere, and made suggestions

while tearing down the street like a frightened chicken; he talked to

himself very rapidly as if working out the premium on a stone, iron-roofed

building. The whole secret of his life and activity was that he was

organically incapable of concerning himself with any one matter, subject, or

thought for longer than a minute.

If his joke was not successful and did not cause instant mirth,

Iznurenkov, unlike others, did not attempt to persuade the chief editor that

the joke was good and required reflection for complete appreciation; he

immediately suggested another one.

"What's bad is bad," he used to say, "and that's the end of it."

When in shops, Iznurenkov caused a commotion by appearing and

disappearing so rapidly in front of the sales people, and buying boxes of

chocolates so grandly, that the cashier expected to receive at least thirty

roubles. But Iznurenkov, dancing up and down by the cash desk and pulling at

his tie as though it choked him, would throw down a crumpled three-rouble

note on to the glass plate and make off, bleating gracefully.

If this man had been able to stay still for even as little as two

hours, the most unexpected things might have happened.

He might have sat down at a desk and written a marvellous novel, or

perhaps an application to the mutual-assistance fund for a permanent loan,

or a new clause in the law on the utilization of housing space, or a book

entitled How to Dress Well and Behave in Society.

But he was unable to do so. His madly working legs carried him off, the

pencil flew out of his gesticulating hands, and his thoughts jumped from one

thing to another.

Iznurenkov ran about the room, and the seals on the furniture shook

like the earrings on a gypsy dancer. A giggling girl from the suburbs sat on

the chair.

"Ah! Ah!" cried Absalom Vladimirovich, "divine! Ah! Ah! First rate! You

are Queen Margot."

The queen from the suburbs laughed respectfully, though she understood

nothing.

"Have some chocolate, do! Ah! Ah! Charming."

He kept kissing her hands, admiring her modest attire, pushing the cat

into her lap, and asking, fawningly: "He's just like a parrot, isn't he? A

lion. A real lion. Tell me, isn't he extraordinarily fluffy? And his tail.

It really is a huge tail, isn't it?"

The cat then went flying into the corner, and, pressing his hands to

his milk-white chest, Absalom Vladimirovich began bowing to someone outside

the window. Suddenly a valve popped open in his madcap mind and he began to

be witty about his visitor's physical and spiritual attributes.

"Is that brooch really made of glass? Ah! Ah! What brilliance.

Honestly, you dazzle me. And tell me, is Paris really a big city? Is there

really an Eiffel Tower there? Ah! What hands! What a nose!"

He did not kiss the girl. It was enough for him to pay her compliments.

And he talked without end. The flow of compliments was interrupted by the

unexpected appearance of Ostap.

The smooth operator fiddled with a piece of paper and asked sternly:

"Does Iznurenkov live here? Is that you? "

Absalom Vladimirovich peered uneasily into the stranger s stony face.

He tried to read in his eyes exactly what demands were forthcoming; whether

it was a fine for breaking a tram window during a conversation, a summons

for not paying his rent, or a contribution to a magazine for the blind.

"Come on, Comrade," said Ostap harshly, "that's not the way to do

things-kicking out a bailiff."

"What bailiff? " Iznurenkov was horrified.

"You know very well. I'm now going to remove the furniture. Kindly

remove yourself from that chair, citizeness," said Ostap sternly.

The young citizeness, who only a moment before had been listening to

verse by the most lyrical of poets, rose from her seat.

"No, don't move," cried Iznurenkov, sheltering the chair with his body.

"They have no right."

"You'd better not talk about rights, citizen. You should be more

conscientious. Let go of the furniture! The law must be obeyed."

With these words, Ostap seized the chair and shook it in the air.

"I'm removing the furniture," said Ostap resolutely.

"No, you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not, when I am?" Ostap chuckled, carrying the

chair into the corridor.

Absalom kissed his lady's hand and, inclining his head, ran after the

severe judge. The latter was already on his way downstairs.

"And I say you have no right. By law the furniture can stay another two

weeks, and it's only three days so far. I may pay!"

Iznurenkov buzzed around Ostap like a bee, and in this manner they

reached the street. Absalom Vladimirovich chased the chair right up to the

end of the street. There he caught sight of some sparrows hopping about by a

pile of manure. He looked at them with twinkling eyes, began muttering to

himself, clapped his hands, and, bubbling with laughter, said:

"First rate! Ah! Ah! What a subject!"

Engrossed in working out the subject, he gaily turned around and rushed

home, bouncing as he went. He only remembered the chair when he arrived back

and found the girl from the suburbs standing up in the middle of the room.

Ostap took the chair away by cab.

"Take note," he said to Ippolit Matveyevich, "the chair was obtained

with my bare hands. For nothing. Do you understand?"

When they had opened the chair, Ippolit Matveyevich's spirits were low.

"The chances are continually improving," said Ostap, "but we haven't a

kopek. Tell me, was your late mother-in-law fond of practical jokes by any

chance? "

"Why?"

"Maybe there aren't any jewels at all."

Ippolit Matveyevich waved his hands about so violently that his jacket

rode up.

"In that case everything's fine. Let's hope that Ivanopulo's estate

need only be increased by one more chair."

"There was something in the paper about you today, Comrade Bender,"

said Ippolit Matveyevich obsequiously.

Ostap frowned. He did not like the idea of being front-page news. "What

are you blathering about? Which newspaper?"

Ippolit Matveyevich triumphantly opened the Lathe. "Here it is. In the

section 'What Happened Today'."

Ostap became a little calmer; he was only worried about public

denouncements in the sections "Our Caustic Comments" and "Take the

Malefactors to Court".

Sure enough, there in nonpareil type in the section "What Happened

Today" was the item:

KNOCKED DOWN BY A HORSE

CITIZEN O. BENDER WAS KNOCKED DOWN YESTERDAY ON SVERDLOV SQUARE BY

HORSE-CAB NO. 8974. THE VICTIM WAS UNHURT EXCEPT FOR SLIGHT SHOCK.

"It was the cab-driver who suffered slight shock, not me," grumbled O.

Bender. "The idiots! They write and write, and don't know what they're

writing about. Aha! So that's the Lathe. Very, very pleasant. Do you

realize, Vorobyaninov, that this report might have been written by someone

sitting on our chair? A fine thing that is!"

The smooth operator lapsed into thought. He had found an excuse to

visit the newspaper office.

Having found out from the editor that all the rooms on both sides of

the corridor were occupied by the editorial offices, Ostap assumed a naive

air and made a round of the premises. He had to find out which room

contained the chair.

He strode into the union committee room, where a meeting of the young

motorists was in progress, but saw at once there was no chair there and

moved on to the next room. In the clerical office he pretended to be waiting

for a resolution; in the reporters' room he asked where it was they were

selling the wastepaper, as advertised; in the editor's office he asked about

subscriptions, and in the humorous-sketch section he wanted to know where

they accepted notices concerning lost documents.

By this method he eventually arrived at the chief editor's office,

where the chief editor was sitting on the concessionaires' chair bawling

into a telephone.

Ostap needed time to reconnoitre the terrain.

"Comrade editor, you have published a downright libellous statement

about me."

"What libellous statement?"

Taking his time, Ostap unfolded a copy of the Lathe. Glancing round at

the door, he saw it had a Yale lock. By removing a small piece of glass in

the door it would be possible to slip a hand through and unlock it from the

inside.

The chief editor read the item which Ostap pointed out to him.

"Where do you see a libellous statement there?"

"Of course, this bit:

The victim was unhurt except

for slight shock.'"

"I don't understand."

Ostap looked tenderly at the chief editor and the chair.

"Am I likely to be shocked by some cab-driver? You have disgraced me in

the eyes of the world. You must publish an apology."

"Listen, citizen," said the chief editor, "no one has disgraced you.

And we don't publish apologies for such minor points."

"Well, I shall not let the matter rest, at any rate," replied Ostap as

he left the room.

He had seen all he wanted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE MARVELLOUS PRISON BASKET

The Stargorod branch of the ephemeral Sword and Ploughshare and the

young toughs from Fastpack formed a queue outside the Grainproducts meal

shop.

Passers-by kept stopping.

"What's the queue for?" asked the citizens.

In a tiresome queue outside a shop there is always one person whose

readiness to chatter increases with his distance from the shop doorway. And

furthest of all stood Polesov.

"Things have reached a pretty pitch," said the fire chief. "We'll soon

be eating oilcake. Even 1919 was better than this. There's only enough flour

in the town for four days."

The citizens twirled their moustaches disbelievingly and argued with

Polesov, quoting the Stargorod Truth.

Having proved to him as easily as pie that there was as much flour

available as they required and that there was no need to panic, the citizens

ran home, collected all their ready cash, and joined the flour queue.

When they had bought up all the flour in the shop, the toughs from

Fastpack switched to groceries and formed a queue for tea and sugar.

In three days Stargorod was in the grip of an acute food and commodity

shortage. Representatives from the co-operatives and state-owned trading

organizations proposed that until the arrival of food supplies, already on

their way, the sale of comestibles should be restricted to a pound of sugar

and five pounds of flour a head.

The next day an antidote to this was found.

At the head of the sugar queue stood Alchen. Behind him was his wife,

Sashchen, Pasha Emilevich, four Yakovleviches and all fifteen old-women

pensioners in their woollen dresses. As soon as he had bled the shop of

twenty-two pounds of sugar, Alchen led his queue across to the other

co-operatives, cursing Pasha Emilevich as he went for gobbling up his ration

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